


Mr Darcy vs The Neighbourhood

by Hiniwalay



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Darcy In Social Situations, Darcy/Pride, Elizabeth/Wilful Misunderstanding, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Insufferable neighbors, Romance, SO MUCH BANTER
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25398736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiniwalay/pseuds/Hiniwalay
Summary: A lack of rain before the Netherfield ball sends an entirely new sequence of events roiling into action.Or: Darcy thought that courting a country miss was supposed to beeasy.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet & Charlotte Lucas, Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley
Comments: 89
Kudos: 257





	1. In which Darcy is a Wallflower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MorticiaYouSpokeFrench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorticiaYouSpokeFrench/gifts).



> a fine author who saw fit to bestow us grateful readers with four of the best Pride & Prejudice fanfics in existence.
> 
> Without further ado, I present: _Mr. Darcy vs The Neighbourhood._

It was in the middle of the distinctly unremarkable country of Hertfordshire where Fitzwilliam Darcy’s life took a turn for the worst.

It was insupportable, truly. What material claim should so insignificant a neighbourhood have on him? on a _Darcy?_ And yet, it was so.

She was a country miss with inferior connexions, and he was _smitten._

_God have mercy._

He had resisted. Heaven knows he had resisted. However, it seemed as if fate — or at least the entire neighborhood — was conniving to throw Miss Elizabeth Bennet his way. Such as when Miss Bennet fell ill whilst she called on Netherfield, so Miss Elizabeth simply _had_ to stay. But other than that morning where they sat mutely in the library, they were never alone. The people Hertfordshire never let them be. Someone — be they sisters, friends, matrons — was always, _always_ there, interrupting the unparalleled brilliance of conversation Darcy knew that he and Miss Elizabeth were equal to if they were only undisturbed.

Take the current situation as an example.

The Netherfield party had been invited to a soiree hosted by yet another of Hertfordshire’s four-and-twenty families. Miss Bingley, thankfully, declined, stating that she had much better spend her time _reading_ in the library. She sent Darcy a significant look as she said this, which quickly withered away any similar plans he might have been concocting. Pardon him if he thereafter neglected to inform Miss Bingley that he would, in fact, attend the soiree.

Thus, they arrived at the hosting house as a party of all men, Mrs. Hurst having remained behind with Miss Bingley due to an upset stomach. Mr. Hurst, on the other hand, would never turn down an invitation where food was involved. Bingley, as was his wont, was being his fantastically agreeable self. How he managed it, Darcy would never know, and was content to leave to his enthusiastic friend the pleasantries that so often left _him_ exhausted. However, as soon as the Bennet sisters arrived — not that Darcy was _waiting_ — all of Bingley’s attentions mysteriously localized themselves on the eldest Miss Bennet.

The defenses of Bingley’s society soon disappeared. Darcy was left to fend for himself.

“That Mr. Bingley!” crowed Mrs. Bennet, and Darcy braced himself for what was to follow. “Oh, what fortunes await my Jane! I always said she could not be so beautiful for nothing. Five thousand a year! I am all aflutter!”

“Mama,” said Miss Elizabeth exasperatedly, cutting off what probably would have otherwise been a very trying tirade. “That is all well and good, but nothing is so fortunate about this _possible_ match as that Jane may have all the joys of shared affection.”

Darcy’s head snapped to Miss Elizabeth. Truly?

“Yes, yes, Jane shall be happy with Mr. Bingley. I say he is a most agreeable man, unlike _some_ gentlemen we have had the misfortune of knowing. But five thousand a year! All the pin money! I know not how she should spend it!”

“On bonnets, of course!” declared the youngest and most audacious. “Why, if I had her money, I should buy a new dress a week! Always the prettiest fashions, with fine lace and daring cuts and— _oh!_ We shall have balls, the _grandest_ balls, large enough to invite all of England’s red coats!”

Miss Elizabeth rolled her eyes heavenward. Darcy found it terribly endearing.

There was a small shuffling beside him, and he became aware of a new presence. It was the silent one — Miss Mary.

Hmm. That could be borne.

The rest of the girls scattered, Miss Elizabeth to her friend Miss Lucas. Darcy was content to watch her from a distance.

That was, until another man approached her. Inexplicably, Darcy found himself growing irate.

Raising his chin, he considered the merits of that man. He was affable — not as much as Bingley, but tolerably so — passably handsome, if pockmarked and a touch on the heavy side. Not rich, certainly not, the cut of his clothes told him _that_. Moreover, if he _was_ , that mercenary of a mother would have had them married by now.

Darcy shuddered. That could _not_ be borne.

He watched them interact a while longer. She was friendly to him, but he failed to meet her quickness of conversation. Ha.

Then Elizabeth laughed, and as one, the triad’s gaze turned to _him._ Darcy’s curiosity shot to the sky.

Granted, he often got a great many looks at social events. That was not an oddity in itself. It was expected, even. But Hertfordshire was different. No one batted their eyelashes, or giggled when he looked their way, or pushed their daughters forward and scolded them to chin up, thrust their chest out, and stand straight.

Yes, yes, Darcy was only curious about the looks they were giving him because it was unusual in this setting. That was all.

Then again, he was comfortable by the wall, was he not? There was no reason to quit his solitary sphere. No need to put himself out there when he could watch from afar —

Her bright, playful eyes met his, and suddenly his feet were moving of their own accord, oh Lord, oh _Lord_.

“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted him, quirking a brow. Darcy’s heart jolted. “I see you have finally condescended to grace us with your presence.”

“I found that watching by the wall left much to be desired.” Where, oh where, had his thought-to-word filter gone? He dismayed and prayed that she would not read into that.

“Yes, I suppose it is much more conducive to craft judgment in more intimate settings.”

Darcy failed to conceive a witty response, mostly because his mind was still whirling on “intimate settings.”

“I find it hard to believe that that was Mr. Darcy’s design in attending,” said Miss Lucas. “We may as well deduce that he is here for reasons most amiable.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes — amiable.”

“Pray, what should those reasons be?” said Miss Elizabeth. She was so saucy, so enchanting, and he found himself leaning towards her.

 _No!_ He mastered himself. _He would not be entrapped so easily!_ He cast around for a pardonable reason. “This was the path to the punch table.”

A minor silence ensued. Darcy mentally congratulated himself for successfully deflecting the question.

The man in the group coughed. “Shall I grab us refreshments?”

Not wanting to be outdone, Darcy declared, “I shall accompany you.”

And so he did, and the two men returned to the women with a glass in each hand. Darcy strode forward quickly to ensure that he would get there first. _His_ drink would go to Miss Elizabeth.

She accepted his offering.

It felt good.

Darcy spent the proceeding conversation quietly relishing his victory. Furthermore, he was taller than the other man. It wouldn’t do to let such an advantage go to waste.

But then Miss Elizabeth addressed the man by his Christian name, and Darcy felt his stomach plummet.

* * *

His angel. His Rachel. His sweet, sweet Jane.

They had been talking for who knew how long, the world passing them by. A lull came in their quiet conversation, and Charles Bingley found nothing better than her presence to appreciate.

Her light eyes looked about the room, a serene smile on her full, rosy lips. Slowly, the smile morphed into something else — but no less lovely — a slight purse.

“What is it, Miss Bennet?” Oh, how he longed to call her by her Christian name. Would her virtues never cease? When would he be granted the privilege?

“Mr. Darcy...” said Jane with the most beautiful tiny pucker on her brow, “pays a curious amount of attention to my sister, does he not?”

Bingley’s head whipped around. Darcy? _That_ untouchable man? Surely France and England would give up arms in mutual surrender before Darcy came out of his shell and —

His eyes finally landed his friend.

Bingley’s mouth fell into an “o”.

* * *

The most eligible bachelor to ever touch the neighbourhood was falling for Elizabeth, and Charlotte was there to bear witness.

Eliza, of course, would hear nothing of it. She insisted that Mr. Darcy looked at her only to find fault, but Charlotte knew that the reasoning was not sound. Had men so consistently and unwaveringly stared at women to find fault, then eyes would follow Charlotte’s plain face wherever she went.

Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, possessed an attitude so wholly absorbed with Eliza that he hardly acknowledged either Charlotte or her brother. It was most enlightening. Charlotte should laud him for his good taste. Eliza was indeed singular.

Her father glanced over at them, and after completing his courtesies to the local matrons, walked over and clapped her brother on the shoulder. “Why, John, I am delighted to see you make friends with Mr. Darcy!” To the estate master, he bowed. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy, you choose finely superior society.”

“Yes,” said the man, suddenly tense. “I am particular about my company.”

Her father either had not caught the mood or chosen to barrel over it. “Might have I the honour of introducing you to my son, Mr. John Lucas, and my daughter, Miss Lucas? That is, if Miss Eliza Bennet has not beaten me to it.”

Elizabeth blushed. “My apologies, I was most distracted.”

“It is of no consequence,” said Mr. Darcy immediately. Charlotte wondered if he realized how many toes of social etiquette he was treading. Given the observations she has so recently made, Charlotte was inclined to forgive him for the offense.

Her father was more begrudging, but his ever cordial face betrayed nothing to one who did not live in his house. “I cannot help but wonder, Mr. Darcy, about the circles in which you normally engage?”

Mr. Darcy appeared to fidget. Charlotte inwardly sighed at her father’s assumption that everyone loved to dwell on the social ladder of rank and distinction.

“When I am in the _Ton_ ,” said Mr. Darcy at last, “I am oft invited to dinners, balls, and similar engagements.”

“I assume it pleases you to honour _them_ with your presence?” challenged Eliza.

“Not at all,” he said frankly. “I much prefer the company of a few choice acquaintances than to mingle in a large party.”

The confession was of no surprise to Charlotte, but an expression flitted across Eliza’s face too quickly to be deciphered. “I take it this party is not to your taste?” ventured John.

Mr. Darcy seemed to glare at Charlotte’s brother. “It is tolerable.”

The chagrined flash across Eliza’s face was easily deciphered _then_.

“Of course,” said Sir William, “A man so distinguished as yourself can have only the highest standards.”

At this, the said man’s gaze fixed steadily on Eliza. “I do not deny it.”

 _Oh dear, Mr. Darcy._ Charlotte eyed her friend. _You are in trouble._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have very limited knowledge on the Regency period culture and its style of language, so I’m admittedly bluffing my way through. If you have any corrections or concerns for me — or are even willing to beta — please know that I would appreciate it most highly!


	2. In which Eliza is a Nit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what it feels like when you have crafted two perfectly good outlines, then dither for months because you are not sure which one to pursue, but then every time you try to write a second chapter for either outline, you run into a block immovable?
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> And then I tossed both outlines in the bin and simply _wrote_ the chapter 2 that naturally followed from 1.
> 
> Hooray! Problem solved.

"That... that!" Hands clenched and flew into the air along with several blades of grass. "Ugh!"

No leaf or tender weed was spared mercy as Lizzy stomped and strode across the lawn. Meters away, Jane and Charlotte leaned placidly by the fence. Neither was inclined to stop Elizabeth.

"Mr. High-and-Mighty! Mr. Oh-so-Wealthy! Cannot even stand a civil conversation!"

"Lizzy," called Jane. "Might you have misunderstood?"

"I?" she laughed. "Oh, _no._ Mr. _Darcy_ was perfectly clear about his preferences."

"I rather thought so as well," said Charlotte. Elizabeth looked as if she was about to kiss her, but Charlotte was not finished. "He was perfectly clear about his preference for one _Elizabeth Bennet_."

"Charlotte, if you have begun to tease me, I am warning you, I shall return the banter tenfold!"

"I jest not, Eliza. He has been paying you extraordinary attention."

"Of a vexatious sort! He _enjoys_ getting on my nerves!"

While Elizabeth was busy doing a fearsome imitation of their mother, Jane tried again. "Lizzy, when Charlotte and I both are united in opinion, might not you do us the credit of belief? We are not as devoted studiers of character as you, but we can make a sound observation."

"Dear Jane," said Elizabeth in half fondness, half exasperation. "You know that in all things I greatly value your opinion — and indeed if it were anything else, I would — but suggesting that _Mr. Darcy_ might have a _tendre_ for me goes _far_ beyond belief."

"Mr. Bingley himself said that it is possible."

"Mr. Bingley is a vastly more courteous gentleman than his friend. Likely he gave you a favorable answer so as not to cause offense. And so angelic and trusting are you that your beau would be loath to say no to you! Combined with his self-asserted malleability of opinion, I daresay he would agree with you on everything you suggest."

"Lizzy! It is not so."

Charlotte responded, "While I agree that Mr. Bingley might agree whether or not he believed Mr. Darcy attracted to you — the phrasing _possible_ leaves much room for prevarication, after all — I implore that you consider our observations seriously, Eliza. We know what we saw. Mr. Darcy's regard was written all over his face."

"His face, yes! What a remarkable face it is. To create dissent among friends and sisters only by its appearance!" Elizabeth crossed her arms. "Even in absence, he manages to plague me."

"Eliza..."

She shook her head. "'Tis ridiculous. You are seeing that which does not exist." She walked off to be further from her friend and sister, placed her hands to her hips, straightened, and declared loudly, "Mr. Darcy has made it his personal mission to vex and intimidate me, and I certainly shall not give him the satisfaction of accomplishment."

There was a throat-clearing behind her.

"Oh! Mr. Bingley! ...and Mr. Darcy."

Mr. Bingley made an admirable show of greeting and bowing. His companion only stared.

At this point, Jane and Charlotte walked to join them as well, one more hurriedly than the other. Bingley beamed at the former and launched into a genial conversation with the latter, leaving Elizabeth and Darcy to contend.

Elizabeth, whose chin had already been lifted in challenge, raised an arch brow. "I wonder at your visiting our humble abode, Mr. Darcy."

His eyes darted away and back to her. "We were riding in the area. Bingley would not pass up the chance to call."

"Oh, indeed. Only Mr. _Bingley_ is desirous of calling."

"I did not intend to sound ungracious—"

"And yet, that was the implication, was it not?"

He opened his mouth and clamped it shut.

Thankfully, Bingley interceded. "Forgive us, Miss Elizabeth. I do believe Darcy woke on the wrong side of the bed this morning! I was barely in the breakfast room when he quite demanded his coffee."

"You prefer coffee to tea, then, Mr. Darcy?" said Charlotte, before Elizabeth could release what promised to be a scathing rejoinder.

"Only during breakfast. I find it invigorating."

"Then we are in perfect accordance," said Jane, "for it is within our ability to offer you afternoon tea."

With a hearty agreement from Bingley, Jane led the way into the house.

When they and, with a lingering eye, Darcy had gone ahead of them, Charlotte pulled Elizabeth aside.

"Mark me, Eliza, you _must not_ squander this chance at the most eligible bachelor who has _ever_ passed through this neighbourhood."

"Really, Charlotte! You speak as if material gain is marriage's only due consideration."

"Eliza, _please_ consider this wisdom from your dear friend who is nearly on the shelf."

She took her hands. "My dear Charlotte, your counsel is, as ever, judicious. I am very thankful, as a younger woman with little experience in the world, for your guidance. But I am afraid I cannot indulge you in this matter, for I am a self-important creature that would rather be a spinster than bound to _him_."

Charlotte gave her a greatly frustrated look before deliberately turning away and striding after the rest of the party.

Elizabeth watched her go with no little astonishment. "Well then! He has done an exceptional job of disturbing my peace. I wonder how I shall punish him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me after so long! 
> 
> Tell me what you think?


	3. In which Collins Puts a Sock in it

Elizabeth thought it mighty unfair how many men seemed to have it out for her lately.

"My dear Cousin," said the Odious One. "very very VERY long Lady Catherine de Bourgh speech, etc."

Even her father had foisted Mr. Collins on them. She felt betrayed.

On the other hand, her mother had insisted that _all_ the girls walk out to Meryton, despite Mary's protests. She — Mary, that is — was walking with a book of sermons in front of her nose. Elizabeth kept nodding towards her and making hints about Mary's great appreciation of religious education, but clearly, subtlety could not whisper into the skull of a man so obtuse.

It was in this manner of trying to escape their cousin that she with her sisters made their way to Meryton, where they ran into Mr. Wickham. (And Denny, too, though many consider that detail unimportant.) Elizabeth's first reaction to such a man was initially a great deal of exasperation.

_Oh, wonderful. A handsome officer._

But, when he greeted her gallantly and kissed her hand, she still felt flattered by his attention in spite of herself.

At that moment, Darcy and Bingley come up riding. Darcy, decisive man that he was, had been so extremely shocked by what he heard during yesterday's Longbourn call. It was Elizabeth's voice, saying he meant to vex and intimidate her! So preoccupied he was with deliberating the meaning of this statement, he had been rendered mute for the entirety of tea. Perhaps it meant that, against all conceivable odds, Miss Elizabeth was entirely unaware of his regard? On the ride back to Netherfield, wind blowing through his hair, something light and almost gleeful had bloomed in his chest. If this was true, that meant... he could pay her his attentions, without raising expectations!

Ahem.

As such, Darcy was currently dwelling happily on the very pleasant prospects of wooing-but-not-wooing Elizabeth when he spotted her along the wayside — and the face kissing her hand.

His horse reared almost violently.

_Wickham._

Bingley, too, pulled to a stop — much more gracefully — and swung down from his horse. With all affability, he hailed the party. It covered up for the social imperiousness of Darcy, who stood stiffly with his snorting steed a little ways behind, grinding his teeth.

He was glaring at Wickham, who paled more and more under such unfaltering hostility. With a tip of his hat, an excuse to Denny, and gallant leave-takings of the girls, the man soon left.

This disappointed the girls, but Mr. Collins was relieved. With the more impressive male gone, some measure of attention could now fall to him. Jane stepped in before he could perform his own introductions, but nothing would stop him from fawning over the nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

Mr. Darcy would not have desired Collins' bootlicking on a good day, and on this day, it was altogether worse. He lifted a hand and implored Collins to quell his speech-making, which, after some gushing apologies and a look of true displeasure, actually managed to succeed.

Astonishing.

The parson then attempted to turn back to Elizabeth, but found that to his alarm, Lady Catherine's nephew hovered over _her_ , as if staking his claim! Thus, Mr. Collins settled for escorting Miss Kitty, but as she was sulking after Lydia and Denny and very snappish with anyone else as a result, he fled from that sister. With no other recourse but to attend Miss Mary, with her he, at last, remained.

With all the rest of the party out of the way, Darcy, chest heaving, spun on Elizabeth (who was impressed with his handling of Mr. Collins, but would never admit that).

"Mr. Darcy." She curtsied.

"Miss Elizabeth." He bowed brusquely, and burst, "I do not want you keeping company with Wickham."

Her wide, dark eyes blinked up at him. " _Excuse_ me?"

It took a beat of surprise, for Darcy had never imagined that he could be misunderstood by Miss Elizabeth, but he eventually realized how officious he had sounded. Who was he? Her father, to command her about? Immediately castigating himself, he blushed and tried to explain his reasoning. "I have known George Wickham since my infancy. He is... not the sort of man a gently bred lady should be associating with."

That did not lessen the degree of her stare. "Are you intimating something, Mr. Darcy?"

He tugged his cravat. "Yes?" When her eyes narrowed dangerously, he hastily amended, "No! Pray, do not mistake my meaning. Whomever the lady, Wickham is not to be trusted."

An understanding light cleared in her eyes. "Ah. I see how it is."

"You do?" said Darcy, immeasurably relieved.

"Quite," she said pertly.

He sighed. "Very good."

They descended into silence. Elizabeth was determined that she should not break it.

Peering at him out of the corner of her eye, she noted with satisfaction the discomfort in his expression. If she hadn't known any better, she'd have said that the wringing of his hands was a nervous gesture. Perhaps he was preparing them for some nefarious purpose.

"Do you often walk to Meryton," he said, at last.

"Far more often than I ride," all impertinence.

"You are no horsewoman?"

Her ire was stoked. Would he not cease to remind her of her inadequacy? "Mr. Darcy, while riding on horseback has undeniable advantages, I find that I take a great deal of pleasure in observing people from the ground, as opposed to from lofty positions."

"That... does not answer my question."

"You may ask questions which I may choose not to answer."

"Ah." Then, steeling himself, "I happened upon a very... curious conversation, yesterday."

"Eavesdropping, Mr. Darcy?"

"Not intentionally, no. However, unlike as with my eyes, I am unable to close my ears on command, you see."

Her mouth twitched traitorously.

Emboldened by this reaction, Mr. Darcy plowed onward. "I... could not help but note that you declared it was my personal mission to vex and intimidate you."

"Do you deny it, sir?"

For a moment, she had relief as his intense gaze flickered away. "I was rather asking whether _you_ deny it."

"Oh?"

"I know you have a predilection for expressing opinions you do not actually possess."

"It does not follow that everything I say is a falsehood."

He stopped in his tracks to stare her down. "So it is settled. You believe I seek to vex you, and have no other ambitions where you are concerned than to tease and discompose."

"Quite. Unless you care to challenge that opinion, Mr. Darcy?"

"No," he said. "No, I do not."

She began their walk again, setting a quick pace through the cobblestone shopfronts. "Then — amazingly enough — we are in agreement," she said archly. "We are each the bitterest of enemies, locked in a merry battle of wits for whose interminable skirmish there can only be one victor."

"I would not put it in such strong words."

Cheekily, she grinned. "Admitting defeat already, Mr. Darcy? Perhaps you would prefer to surrender? If so, I would have you get down on your knees, sir. Then, once I am satisfied with your groveling, I am sure we can negotiate the terms."

The arrival at — wherever they were walking — saved Darcy the very great, very disquieting trouble of a response.

They entered the Phillips' townhouse. Mrs. Phillips was all agog at receiving such ~~fodder for gossip~~ fine persons. The heir to Longbourn! Five thousand a year! _Ten_ thousand a year, and half of Derbyshire! (And very likely more!)

Unlike Mrs. Bennet who would have sniffed and said that the insufferable Mr. Darcy likely had _less_ than ten thousand — what business he had insulting her girls as he did — her Sister Phillips was much more rational about this.Mr. Darcy was an illustrious personage, after all, very nearly a peer, who obviously would not marry a penniless country girl regardless of whether he found her handsome, therefore his insultingness could not change how rich he was. Moreover, Mrs. Phillips prided herself on the quality of her information and considered it her Christian duty to ascertain the truth.

"Mr. Darcy," she said, seating herself primly on the sofa beside his armchair. "Good morning."

"Yes?" he replied, rather blankly.

Idly did Mrs. Phillips wonder if Mr. Darcy was truly above his company, or simply stupid.

"I hear you have an estate in Derbyshire. What was it again? Pender... Pander..."

"Pemberley," said Darcy.

"Pemberley!" she clapped her hands. "My Sister Gardiner hails from Derbyshire as well, from a village called Lambington, I believe."

"Lambton." As Aunt Phillips began to muse on how excellently this interview was going, Mr. Darcy added, "It is but five miles from Pemberley."

"Wonderful! You shall have a great many things to speak of, then, when the Gardiners arrive. The Bennets shall host them come Christmas."

Darcy gave a noncommital grunt.

It was then that Mrs. Phillips realized that her conversation partner was not simply absentminded. His attention was drawn elsewhere. Those bright eyes were watching something steadily, something that moved across the room with great gusto.

He was looking... at Lizzy?

But...

Heart hammering in her ribcage, Mrs. Phillips considered her options. More information — that was always important. "You shall stay for the winter, then?"

"If Bingley will not quit Netherfield, perhaps."

"You will miss the Season in town."

"Hardly," he said, in a voice that was very dry.

"You are not looking forward to meeting the debutantes?"

He finally regarded her. "It matters not."

"Oh! Why ever not? Have you yet no plans to marry?"

Darcy said curtly, almost adamantly, "No."

His eyes jerked away again as he said this, and the expression in them was very fierce. She followed his line of sight.

Elizabeth, still.

But...

Aunt Phillips knew not what to feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I must have edited this chapter ten times already. Omniscient POV is something else!
> 
> By the by, I published a one-shot called _I'd Wager It Went Like This_. You may want to check it out for more DxE humor and sweetness~
> 
> Please, tell me what you think! =D


	4. In which Wickham Sniffs an Opportunity

Aunt Phillips was interested in the bachelors who visited her both for their gossip value and for the sake of her many nieces. To her critical eye, for example, Mr. Bingley was suitably handsome, enough to never be scorned for acquiring dear Jane; although, a little more height should improve him substantially. He was also awfully young — not two years past his majority! She had it on good authority that he was, at least, some months older than her niece — but as long as he was rich, no one could complain. At least, at such a youthful age, he had yet hope of growing taller. Perhaps she could recommend to him the herbal potions of their apothecary.

Also undergoing scrutiny was Mr. Collins. _He_ was sufficiently tall, if heavy and not handsome, which matched him perfectly with Mary. He was a clergyman; she was a bluestocking for religious and moral texts. The pair would do exceptionally well together.

But never in her wildest dreams had Aunt Phillips thought she needed to appraise Mr. Darcy.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, Master of Pemberley, nephew of an Earl. What else was true? Mrs. Phillips knew for a _fact_ that great men were often involved in libertine intrigue. Bingley was safe grounds; he was clearly a good Christian, friendly and obliging and courting Jane openly. Unless he jilt Jane, no issue could arise from _that_ corner. Mr. Collins, too, was bound to the good behavior due his status as the Bennets' cousin and Longbourn's guest. But Mr. Darcy... _he_ was quiet and forbidding, like a villain devising debauched schemes in the darkness, _and_ he had the power and resources to do whatever he wanted with impunity.

It frazzled Mrs. Phillips a great deal.

She joined the girls on their walk back to Longbourn — the Netherfield men having stayed behind in Meryton to take care of business — and attached herself to Elizabeth at once.

"Lizzy, my dear, what do you think of Mr. Darcy?"

"What do I think of Mr. Darcy?" said Elizabeth with such amusement that Mrs. Phillips quite despaired of persuading her to take matters seriously. "I think a great many things of Mr. Darcy, none of which I should care to repeat."

"Oh?" she said anxiously.

"Really, Aunt! You are not the first to take up this line of conversation. It is all Mr. Darcy this, Mr. Darcy that! I shall have no peace from him."

"What does he want?"

"To tease me, frustrate me, upset my equanimity — he seems to take a perverse delight in my provocation!"

This was not reassuring.

Upon arrival at Longbourn, Mrs. Phillips, to the collective astonishment of the household, went to the bookroom directly.

"Mr. Bennet!" she shrieked.

With eyebrows high over his spectacles, he said slowly, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

After being informed as to what, particularly, he owed the pleasure, Mr. Bennet calmly took up his book again. "Lizzy knows how to handle boys. I daresay her mother taught her well."

Mrs. Phillips stamped her foot. "This is not a boy. This is a man, a very _tall_ man, with ten thousand a year and the nephew of an Earl!"

He frowned, but it quickly disappeared when his brow quirked instead. "As my Lizzy is not handsome enough to tempt Mr. Darcy, I do not see why I should be concerned. Moreover, are you saying that men are not boys? That is a singular proposition. I believe the scandal sheets might pay to put it to quote."

Mrs. Phillips threw her hands up and stalked out.

"Good!" said Mrs. Bennet crossly, to her younger sister's astonishment. "Not handsome enough to tempt him! Hmph! It serves him right, the proud man. We shall taunt him with what he cannot have."

"Sister," she said nervously, "Do you not fear that Lizzy is something he _can_ have?"

Mrs. Bennet looked up at her distressed informant blankly. "Whatever do you mean, Sister? My Lizzy would never accept a proposal from that odious man! Oh, no? You are speaking of _other things?_ Pish-posh. What kind of nonsense has that Mr. Phillips been putting into your head? Oh, it is because you went and married a lawyer! I did advise you against it! What ugly tales! Listen to them not, Dearest. Such stories have no ground."

"I assure you, Sister, they are entirely true! I often hear them from the servants myself! And the rumours — oh, you do not know the rumours that come from London! From the papers themselves!"

The elder waved a hand over her embroidery. "I daresay it may happen in _other_ neighbourhoods, but it certainly does not happen _here._ We do not stand for that sort of thing around Meryton. Why, though _that_ man disdains our society, Mr. Bingley himself said he should never wish to leave!"

The mention of the affable and certainly-would-never-get-up-to-things-like- _that_ Mr. Bingley placated Mrs. Phillips somewhat, but not enough to preclude the desire to speak to someone who would indulge her heavy grievances. She would not tell her husband; he was ever too busy for things like that and was never quite useful until the books and papers came out. No; she needed someone who was practical and influential, like herself.

* * *

He had only begun a fresh start in the quaint country neighbourhood of Meryton when he came across the one man who could so completely ruin it all; Fitz-Whigging Darcy himself.

George Wickham pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed in the cold, sharp air. Cool, collected.

To make matters worse, it seemed as if the usually antisocial man did not intend to keep his silence. The sourpuss's discussions with that Miss Elizabeth as they walked had broiled with an intensity that belied pleasantries.

And now Wickham was here at the doorstep of the local attorney Phillips. Denny almost had to drag him along; even for the promise of a good dinner, Wickham had been most reluctant. But he reasoned with himself: As long as Darcy wasn't there, he could still turn the tide of opinions in his favor.

They entered and were announced. Darcy absent for another engagement, indeed! He should have known; that old prude had not a cunning bone in his body. He always kept his word, that one, and arriving late was below him when he wasn't in Town. Now secure in his own skin, Wickham scanned the parlor for other familiar faces. There. He met the eye of Miss Elizabeth.

She looked... calculating. Not hostile. Dared he believe that she did not believe Darcy's confidences?

Then he sought her out to speak privately, and was astounded.

"He said that you were not to be trusted around the ladies," she told him, scoffing such that one would have thought she was unimpressed with Darcy. Darcy!

The incredulity did not have to be faked. "Did he?"

"Well, sir. What have you to say to that accusation? Is there no defense that can be made?"

She was so pert that Wickham found himself laughing genuinely. "I see Darcy-boy has not let go of his old grudges. The green-eyed monster doth mock the meat it finds."

Her eyebrows jumped, and her expression was open. Perfect. "Jealousy?"

"Indeed," he sighed. "It was always his failing. Understand that I tell you this in strictest confidence, but" — he looked left and right surreptitiously, and leaned closer — "there was a lady."

She leaned in, breath held fast.

"Yes," Wickham chuckled ruefully. "As fine, as beauteous, as kindhearted a lady there ever was. But Darcy could not countenance that _I_ had won her affections, so, with the power of a man used to getting his own way with all the wealth and influence to achieve it, he separated us."

The bitterness in his last statement did not have to be faked. He could see the cogs whirring inside her head, drawing conclusions from the things he did not say.

He sighed once more and closed his eyes as if in pain. "I loved her," he said quietly. "But even should I discover any hope to return to her side when Darcy endeavours to come between us, I am afraid such love may never bear fruit. As you see, I am but a lowly lieutenant. I could not possibly provide for her in the manner which she is accustomed to living. Then, again..." He sighed even more deeply. "It was also Darcy who reduced me to my present state of poverty."

She gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

It was a simple matter from there to regale her with all the sordid details of his tragedy. Rarely had Wickham come upon an audience so receptive — an audience sparkling with intelligence, and yet, completely taken in. He wondered idly how he might pass his thanks on to Darcy for the pleasure this was giving him.

And really, he thought as he laid his eyes on her, she was quite a pretty thing. To give Darcy pain was his first object; molding her to be his champion would accomplish that splendidly. And who knew? If she had enough of a dowry, she could fancy herself poor Wickham's savior...

It was worth it, when he saw Darcy next. The smug smile Wickham flashed and the thunderous scowl he received only tasted sweeter with the knowledge of the card he held above him.

Wickham thoroughly delighted at discovering Darcy's weakness: He was besotted with a woman who hated him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the Bennets. Jane must have gotten her naivety from somewhere. I, too, have a strong case of "Surely no one _I_ know could be so very bad."
> 
> I began publishing a fic titled _A Father's Right_ between the posting of this chapter and the last. I’m really proud of it! The writing is complete, so it's not going to take away from the making of _this_ fic. I have too many works-in-progress, but I daresay, if you good readers keep it up with the comments, I shall be forced to complete them all. ;D


	5. In which Bingley Bungles Baldly

Darcy squeezed the trigger and relished the satisfying _BAM!_ of the shotgun.

It rang through the air as one among a volley of bullets on this cold but fogless November morning. His arm jerked with the force of the recoil. Unfortunately, he had missed. Down the gun went to be reloaded with the powder and a lead ball.

"A fine shooter can't make up for a poor shot, eh, Mr. Darcy?" yelled Mr. King.

He smiled grimly, cocked back the flintlock, and repositioned the long rifle against his shoulder. His eyes went to the air. There. A new target. Follow the aim... and... _fire._

_BAM._

_Squawk!_

Gunpowder burst in a light cloud from his barrel. A partridge flapped frantically and dropped.

"I have half a mind that you were saving that hit to be dramatic. But the results speak for themselves."

Indeed. King and Hurst had been landing prodigious amounts of prey, enough to feed a small village. Including the one his spaniel was retrieving now, Darcy had only caught three fowls.

Hurst snorted, throwing his head back to shake out the hair. "A damned shame with a gun like that. Say, Darcy, how 'bout a bet? Our rifles as the stakes. First to land the next?"

"I only take wagers I know I can win, Hurst."

King cackled. "Spoken like a true sportsman."

King had a way with words. The only man among them with a smaller catch than Darcy was Mr. Bennet.

Mr. Bennet lowered his old rifle and peered at the covey swooping across the sky with a hand covering his forehead. His single pheasant swung limply at his belt, as did whimper his pointer bitch. "I fear the years have done a number on me. I appear to have lost my eye."

"Dash it, Bennet, you ain't old yet!"

He smiled wryly in response. "With five daughters grown up, you really must expect me to own it."

"Grown up? Psh. Your two youngest ought to be in the schoolroom."

"If you can convince Lydia to stay home and study, you are welcome to try."

Darcy frowned as he prepared another shot.

"Well, I for one would have been sorry to miss the younger Miss Bennets' company," shouted Bingley above the din. "They liven up a gathering!"

Hurst snorted. King hollered, "Surprised you noticed, Bingley! We were all under the impression that you could not see past the _first_ Miss Bennet!"

It was perhaps his status as their host that saved the rapidly colouring Bingley from more jeering. Mr. Bennet even ventured a placating, "It is alright. I have it on the best of authorities — that is to say, my wife's," — the men laughed, King most uproariously of all — "that my Jane is certainly the handsomest girl in all of England. You are not the first to be so captured by her beauty, but I daresay, if she has her way, you will be the last."

Mr. Bennet was deliberately unclear on who "she" was. Poor Bingley could hardly land another bird after that.

More ribbing ensued. When it became apparent that only Lucas was still focused on the hunt, Darcy cleared his throat. "Hurst, King, Lucas — you have shot exceedingly well. I reckon this shall be quite enough for the ball."

Bingley looked around at the dead or shallowly breathing birds scattered among them in the Netherfield grounds. "Yes, yes. Caroline shall be well pleased, I hope."

Hurst fired one last round, dropping an umpteenth pheasant with it. The groundskeeper and a footman went out to assist the bountiful with their prizes. Once that was settled, the half-dozen gents set off back for the house together, swinging their birds and whistling for their dogs, relishing the cool air and the camaraderie of men. Darcy's spaniel yapped at his heels. Thankfully, rain had been scarce last night, so there were no great puddles of mud for the men to track into the house.

Nevertheless, they were incredibly windswept. Servants took their game and their coats and their hostess met them in the drawing room with refreshments.

"Ho! Tea and brandy! And _this_ fine label!" boomed Mr. King, picking up a bottle and, after quick inspection, pouring it into a teacup without the tea. "Miss Bingley, you have my compliments. You certainly know how to serve a gentleman."

She preened and glanced at Darcy. "Oh, this is nothing, really. It is, after all, a lady's place. You men have been dreadfully hard at work, shooting so tirelessly all morning as you have. Attention to your needs is the least I could provide."

King nodded approvingly. Hurst failed to stifle a snort. Mr. Bennet caught Darcy's eye, sardonic and amused.

"In fact," continued Miss Bingley, ringing the bell. "Girl, go fetch the fresh fruit bowls. I have heard that it is a favorite with distinguished gentlemen after a successful hunt."

It was. His favorite, at least. How had she known?

The maid returned in short order, a tray heavily laden with all manner of sliced fruit — even expensive imported ones, like pineapple and melon — rattling in her arms. She hurried to the table, unable to watch her step. There was a _CRASH!_ King yelped and Miss Bingley shrieked in alarm.

"Incompetent girl! You ruined it all! I should have you dismissed!"

The maid — Darcy did not know her name — immediately dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she picked up the sticky, ruined bits of fruit and shattered china.

"No, wait," amended Miss Bingley speculatively, discomposure fading away to be replaced by hauteur and a gleam of triumph. "I am a generous mistress. We shan't dismiss you, for you could never learn discipline otherwise. I shall apply to the housekeeper for a suitable punishment. The damages, of course, will come off your wages."

It might have been a sound, even liberal, decision, but Darcy knew a maid could never afford it.

"What is your name?"

"Debbie, ma'am," she whispered. She was a small, pretty girl, a fact which was only exacerbated by the red rimming her eyes and the tears trailing down her cheeks.

"Miss Bingley," said Darcy, causing the girl to jerk her head up in trepidation. "If I may? I have dealt with such cases at Pemberley."

"Why, of course, Mr. Darcy! I should be glad of your assistance."

"Debbie," he said, and she positively shook with terror. He modulated his voice to be as kind as he could make it. "Are you normally engaged to attend the tray?"

"N-n-no, sir," she whispered, ducking her head. "I is — I is usual with the linens. But they're so busy in d' kitchen wi' the birds an' the ball tha' there be none but me to take d' tray up."

"I see," said Darcy, expecting as much. "Such mishaps as these are almost bound occur in the preparations for so large an event. Debbie here should not have brought up the tray if she could not manage, but given the circumstances, the fault is minimal. It would be very kind of you, Miss Bingley, if you should count the losses to the expenses of the ball."

"I suppose," said Miss Bingley, disappointed that Darcy did not approve of her decision. Nevertheless, she acquiesced. "Run along, girl, and next time, be sure to send someone more competent."

"Yes, ma'am," she whispered and, with the help of a footman, cleared away the rest of the mess.

As they disappeared through the servant's door, Darcy sighed.

"You truly are a most liberal master, Mr. Darcy. I am sure the servants at Pemberley are all grateful."

"Thank you, Miss Bingley. I consider it my duty to give them my care."

Mr. Bennet, who until now had been observing silently, said, "That is quite an opinion, Mr. Darcy. Do you believe your fellow men consider it their duty likewise?"

"Whatever _they_ believe, this is what my father taught me," Darcy replied. "He was the best of men."

Mr. Bennet nodded and said no more on the subject.

He turned away to speak with Bingley — who had given Darcy a grateful and relieved look — and Darcy experienced a sudden surge of uncertainty concerning the older man. It felt as if there was a test that he had been subjected to — which he may or may not have not have passed.

"I am afraid the stress of preparations has been getting to me," said Miss Bingley. "I have never before hosted an event of this scale, and I desire to do it credit, even if it _is_ a ball in the country."

"You will, I am sure. The neighbours will be rapturous."

She smirked and swatted his arm lightly with her fan. "Mr. Darcy, _do_ mind your manners."

Later, after the housekeeper had excused Miss Bingley concerning the ball preparations and while Bingley was having a long conversation with Mr. Bennet (Darcy refused to think about what they were speaking), he decided the earlier sport was not enough and wanted to go out for a stroll.

As Mr. Hurst and Mr. King were debating the best foxhunting strategies and Mr. Lucas had gone to relieve himself, Darcy set out into the garden alone.

"S-sir!" a voice called as a figure ran into the shrubbery.

Pleasantly surprised, he tipped his hat. "Debbie. I hope you are well?"

"Y-y-yes, sir, very much thanks to ye, sir." Her fingers wrung together in front of her stomach. "I don' know 'ow to repay."

"Think nothing of it," he said with a smile. "It was a pleasure."

To his even greater surprise, she stepped forward — and ran her hands deliberately up his waistcoat. "I-i-it would be my pleasure to give _you_ pleasure. Sir."

Darcy's mind stuttered and blanked.

Instinctively, he took a half-step back. The increased distance caused her hands to drop and dip decidedly lower. Panicked, his own hands snatched hers in the air to halt them.

At that, Debbie looked up at him, fearful wide eyes meeting his. Her pert nose was mere inches away. This close, he could see that her lashes were long and that light, rosy freckles dusted her cheeks. She really was a very pretty girl, he realized. The kind of servant that Mrs. Reynolds kept out of the guest wing.

All at once, he had a sinking, doused-with-cold-water, numbing feeling of what this was about.

"Miss Debbie," Darcy said, firmly but gently. "I did not assist you to gain any favors."

"But," she said, breath catching in her throat. "Tha's what — " He shook his head. "Tha's what they always wants! You'll just come later if — "

His fingers clenched. He would never have let this happen at Pemberley.

A person walked into view.

They beheld each other like a startled bird beholds a threat. Darcy's grip, still on the serving girl's wrists, went as slack as his expression. Abruptly, she squealed and ran away into the house, slamming the servant's door behind her.

Darcy and John Lucas turned back to face each other.

"Erm," Darcy cleared his throat, for once looking away first. He could feel the colour burning up his neck and ears. "She was... she spoke to me, to thank me..."

Lucas shot him a dark glare.

He flushed harder, but would not explain unless confronted. He was not. Lucas only stood there, glowering, making the situation all the more awkward with each passing beat of silence. Why had he not let go of her? Created distance? The impropriety of his actions was mortifying. He felt the almost rightful judgment in Lucas' gaze. He rubbed his arm uncomfortably. "Well. I shall be going."

Darcy then strode, almost ran into the house. He ran from prying eyes, guest and servant, and leaned his head back against the wall. In the cool shelter of darkness, he prayed, very fervently, that John Lucas did not confide in his sister — or Miss Elizabeth.

But the consoling solitude could not last. Bingley was to accompany Mr. Bennet and Mr. Lucas on their ride back to the Longbourn-Lucas Lodge area and pressed Darcy to come along with.

It was an unlucky thing. Mr. Wickham was returning with some officers from the same direction, and Darcy had the dissatisfaction of seeing him butter up to the oldest of their party.

"Mr. Bennet!" hailed the recalcitrant lieutenant. "I'm afraid we've come from trespassing once more on the hospitality of your beautiful home. Mr. Lucas, Mr. Bingley," he swept into a gallant bow, then flashed a winning smile. "Mr. Darcy."

Out of reflex, Darcy jerked a nod.

"Wickham, Carter, Denny," greeted Mr. Bennet more genially. "One would gain the impression that you lived at Longbourn, with how often you are always coming and going."

"Apologies, Mr. Bennet," said Carter. "It is very difficult to resist your wife's lures to cakes and tea."

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Bennet dryly. "It is _Mrs._ Bennet you are so intent on calling on."

Carter blushed, Denny laughed, and Wickham grinned. "Precisely. I do _so_ relish a good discussion of lace."

Mr. Bennet's mouth twitched.

Incensed by this exchange, Darcy tightened his grip on the reins. His horse snorted and pawed at the ground in agitation.

"Looks like someone's getting impatient!" exclaimed Wickham. "Well, we best be going, sirs, else we shall hold you up on the road. Good afternoon!" With that, he tipped his hat and the group went merrily on.

Darcy's shoulders did not relax until the sound of their chatter and footsteps crunching on the grass faded.

"Mr. Bennet," he heard Bingley say hesitantly to his left. "The officers... were they..."

"Calling on _Miss_ Bennet?" The man drew out a long _hmm_ , seemingly enjoying the younger's distraction. At length, he replied, "I do not believe so."

Visibly sagging in his seat, he said, "Oh. That's... splendid."

Their horses crested a low, grassy hill. The red brick facade of Longbourn rose into view, dominating the bleak country scene. Bingley, valiantly endeavouring to hide his reluctance, offered to continue on with Mr. Lucas to the Lodge. Thankfully, Lucas declined and said he might as well dismount with them, for his sister was likely to be at Longbourn.

They cantered through the gate, reigned in their steeds, dismounted, and handed the snorting animals to the groom. Anxious now for more than one reason, Darcy tugged at his gloves. It was not as if it had been many days since he had last seen Miss Elizabeth. Indeed, he had called with Bingley once, though Mrs. Bennet's incessant questioning and monopoly of the conversation had put him off ever doing _that_ again. So, instead, those days he wasn't visiting tenants or speaking to workmen with Bingley, he had caught Miss Elizabeth on her walks and escorted her along. There, on those long rambles, they bantered delightfully. With each subsequent meeting, he wondered if she finally got the hint and realized he — well, that he admired her. It was a constant state of being on his toes where she was concerned.

The men clambered up the steps, stamped their boots on the mat, stepped into the entry hall, and shed their hats and coats with the help of a single footman. They were then led into the drawing room, where half the ladies of the house awaited.

It was not an insignificant number. Miss Bennet smiled serenely, Mrs. Bennet alternated between praising her husband for bringing the men and scolding him for not telling her beforehand, and Miss Mary glanced above her book, dismissed their presence, and returned to the pages.

It was, however, not significant enough for Darcy, when he could not spy Elizabeth among them. He was peering above peoples' heads when Mrs. Bennet said, "Oh! Lucas! Your sister is upstairs, taking a look at tonight's dresses. Newly done by the modiste, of course, for Lydia and dear Jane — she grows ever so tall, my Lydia — and Kitty simply _had_ to show her! But they shall be down directly." With that, she turned towards the open door and shouted, " _Lydiaaa! Bring Mariah, Dearest! Her brother is calling!"_

Those whose eardrums were not damaged by the summons heard the cacophony of footsteps descending the stairs. "John!" a younger girl exclaimed. "What are you— oh!" She had not until then realized there was more than one caller. The look she gave Darcy was almost frightened.

Darcy was used to this reaction from the more timid debutantes. He half attempted to smile to reassure her, but it might have ended more like a grimace for he was impatient to find the one Miss Bennet he could not. At least the sister that was here was the younger Miss Lucas, not the elder. That was a relief.

He may have been too obvious in his search.

"Missing anyone, Mr. Darcy?"

"I — no— " he stammered, at once ashamed and affronted. But his principles would not allow any dishonesty. He lifted his chin and said as coolly as possible under the circumstances, which was really not very at all, "Miss Elizabeth is not come downstairs."

"No, indeed," Mr. Bennet hummed. "Perhaps she is overtired from entertaining."

"Oh," said Darcy, crestfallen. But at the same moment, more footsteps sounded lightly from the hall, and he lit up.

His Elizabeth came sweepingly into the room, pleasantly giving her hellos to Bingley and John Lucas. She then turned to Darcy, and he thought he could detect her special delight.

"Miss Elizabeth." He bowed.

"Mr. Darcy." She curtsied.

It seemed that she would not help him along this time. "The weather is oddly fair this time of the year."

"Indeed. We are enjoying its effects."

"It speaks auspiciously for this evening's ball."

"Is that sentiment your own, Mr. Darcy? For I know you do not take much pleasure in a ball."

He smiled unconsciously. "There is one pleasure to which I look forward. May I have your supper set?"

Her eyes widened with such astonishment that he repeated himself.

"Your supper set. May I have it?"

He could not ask her for the first dance as he was obligated to dance it with Miss Bingley as his hostess. He should not ask for two dances without marking such an obvious preference. So, in order to secure the time he wished with her, the supper set it was to be. Hopefully, the gossips would chalk it up to a need to get to know his good friend's prospective in-laws better.

Her lips pursed. "Do you really wish to quarrel over dinner?"

"We have teased and riposted, Miss Elizabeth, but I deny we have ever quarreled."

The arch brow made its appearance. "I shall not come unprepared."

As did his smile. "I look forward to your sallies."

They stood around in silence for a few moments before Darcy ventured,

"Is Mr. Wickham here so often?"

At this, her gaze on him grew piercing. "My mother and Lydia are often inviting the officers. We can hardly exclude him from the party."

"Yes, but I would wish..."

"It is not easy to dissuade a persistent nuisance, Mr. Darcy. But fear not. I keep such scoundrels occupied so that they cannot importune on my sisters."

This made him uneasy, but he knew not how to broach the topic again without becoming a nuisance himself. Besides, he trusted Elizabeth.

He cast around for a pleasanter topic and remembered that which he had been aiming to speak with her since it was finalized. "On the matter of sisters, mine is to arrive at Netherfield three days hence the ball. She will be in need of a friend. I should like to know if you would call on her there."

"Oh!" she said, surprised. "Why is she not to come earlier? So as to attend?"

"She is not yet out."

"If she is as formidable a creature as Miss Bingley effuses, I know not how I shall be of service to her."

"Not nearly. Her skill at the pianoforte is indeed a sight — and sound — to behold, but she is otherwise rather timid."

"Should you not prefer Jane to be her particular friend?"

He thought this over for a moment. "I should like her to meet your elder sister as well," he conceded, "but I believe it would be to her greater benefit to know _you_. You have an ease and openness of manners which will alleviate her shyness."

"I should not suppose you desire to expose your sister to country manners and impertinence!"

Again, he could not help the smile. "You might be all impertinence with _me_ , but I am convinced that with _her_ , you can be nothing but kind."

"That is quite a solid sketch of my character you have there, sir. You seem to have it in colour and ink."

"I trust I have not been deceived in it."

It was not long after when Mrs. Bennet shooed them all away so the ladies could prepare for the evening's ball and look their best. She sent them off with great aplomb and many reminders to Bingley of his dances.

"For I know my Jane will shine like no other lady in attendance, dress themselves up how they may! She is ever so handsome — and the ball is held quite in her honour!"

It was a vulgar speech, but in truth, the strongest offense Darcy took to it was neither its rudeness nor its presumption — though that was grating as well — but that Mrs. Bennet did not even consider her second daughter.

But offense could not hold when there were much happier things to dwell on. Back in his rooms at Netherfield, assisted out of his boots by his valet, Darcy settled in for a quick rest before the evening's revelry. He rolled over in bed, snuggled his head and arms into his pillow, and dreamt of, at long last, the promise of a dance with Miss Elizabeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? ;D


	6. In which Caroline is Seriously Displeased

Darcy awoke from his nap buoyed and refreshed. He sat down for a light repast with Bingley and Hurst, feeling cheerful enough to even crack a few quips. Without Miss Bingley, who was busy with her sister directing the servants and finalizing the decor, no embarrassing remarks on fine eyes were made to affect his composure.

His valet was being particularly meticulous this evening, too. Darcy had told him nothing, but perhaps it was in his manner. Most nights in Town, Fitzwilliam Darcy wanted to get the dressing done with as quickly as possible, only ever remarking to change the outfit Adams picked out if he thought it looked too dandy. Tonight, it was the opposite. Fitzwilliam Darcy wanted to look his best.

And he did cut a fine figure, if he could say so himself. He inspected his looks in the mirror. From his cravat to his shoes, the whole ensemble showed himself to the best advantage, cultivating an understated but undeniable appeal. He angled his head, looking for that jawline. The haircut, too, was flatteringly dashing.

Darcy tried to school his face, but could not help but betray a smile as he walked out of the room and sauntered down the stairs.

He was entering the premises early. He would not join the Bingleys and Hursts at the receiving line, but he wanted to be present when Elizabeth arrived. He would offer her his arm, for sure — he could still escort her even if he could not yet accompany her to the dance floor — would she, perhaps, match with anything of his own? He looked down at his clothes. Maybe the gold of his watch fob, or the deep blue-green of his coat.

He loitered around the well-decorated ballroom, occasionally nodding to the entrants. There were a few faces he remembered, but he couldn't quite place the names. That was fine. Those eyeing him curiously could hardly speak to him without an introduction. He checked his watch. When would Elizabeth arrive? Did the Bennets do fashionably late, as they were some of the principal people in the area?

He was still pitter-pattering about in this manner when the regiment arrived. They were a loud, scarlet bunch, headed by their complaisant colonel. Forester, was it? His gaze was passing over them dismissively when it locked with one.

George Wickham's green eyes bore into his, and that was when things began to go to Bedlam.

...

"Mr. Darcy," snapped Caroline. "Eyes on me."

"Ah." They shifted back to his partner distractedly. It stayed only seconds — she was counting — before straying, once again, to an entirely different woman on the dance floor.

It was infuriating. Normally Caroline would bury any frustration she had towards Darcy with the patience that it was all for Pemberley, but this was _her_ ball and he was _her_ guest and _everyone was watching._

They were in front of the line. Eliza and her Mr. Wickham were _behind_ them. She gave Darcy the benefit of the doubt that he _probably_ wouldn't have been staring so blatantly if the chit had the decency to partner with someone else.

It was supposed to be _her_ night of triumph. The culmination of all her efforts this past fortnight. The decor glittered, the candles blazed, and the one person whom she most needed to impress was doing nothing to help her along.

"Mr. Darcy," she took the tone she usually reserved for Charles, "If you do not stop staring at your Eliza Bennet this instant, there will be _gossip._ "

His head snapped back, startled.

"There is not a soul in this room who _cannot_ see you. Do you wish to become an object of speculation? The jealous rival of Mr. Wickham?"

His grip tightened restlessly on her arm. "There _is_ no rivalry," he growled. "I warned her away from him!"

"Perhaps," said Caroline sharply, "you should consider the woman's position, sir. If he has asked for her first set, she could not refuse without sitting out the entire ball. And _then_ how could you have your precious dance with her?"

The look he now gave her was full of alarm. "You know—"

She didn't, but he confirmed it.

The opening dance continued in silence.

"I..." he began with difficulty. "Forgive me. I have not attended you properly. You have my gratitude, Miss Bingley."

His gratitude, perhaps, her thoughts sighed. But never his interest. The setdown she had delivered brought her no satisfaction when another woman held Mr. Darcy in the palm of her unpolished hands.

The dance ended at last with no further incident. Except, perhaps, that Darcy took his leave of his partner immediately afterward, and went to stalk around Elizabeth.

In between giving orders to the servants and dancing with a country buck who dared ask for her hand, Caroline continued to observe Darcy moon after the country miss. She saw the way he tensed whenever Wickham neared and spoke to her, saw the smugness radiating from the blonde man as he claimed a second set, saw how Darcy glowered at them from the sidelines for the entire half-hour while his object ignored him.

She kept her ears out, too, and what she heard did not please her.

"...walking together in the mornings..."

"...stares at her all the time, look!"

"...a history there, with that officer—"

"...great men always doing..."

"...say he keeps a _mis—"_

But what could she do except offer these gossips insincere smiles and refreshments? A few well-placed barbs to put them in their place, or a fashionable topic to distract them. She hated feeling like she was doing Darcy's clean up, washing out the entrails of his mess. Perhaps her brother would arrive and talk some sense into his friend, but he was too busy either leading every other country miss and Jane Bennet to the dance floor or making conversation with inconsequential men.

In that short span of time where she was not monopolized by the redcoat or some other neighbour, Caroline made her way to Elizabeth.

She grasped her arm and steered her to a private enclave. Caroline could already feel Darcy's gaze burning into her back, but he could think what he liked. She was only trying to help him. "Miss Eliza Bennet, I suggest you cease favouring one guest so much and mingle with your other neighbours. Perhaps your friend Miss Lucas?"

She very nearly scowled. Caroline could feel that she dearly wanted to tear her arm from her grasp.

"This is a matter worthy of your concern?" Eliza pasted on a smile and asked.

"There is no concern too small for the consummate hostess. Perhaps it is an experience you may own for yourself one day."

"I have never claimed to be an accomplished woman, so it plagues me not if I fail to act in the manner befitting one."

She was done with the circle talk. "You know _very well_ that the time you spend with that officer is discomposing a certain gentleman of our acquaintance."

"And what has he to do with this business?" she cried as she swept away. "Not everything is about him!"

Eliza did not allow herself to be caught by Caroline again. As if in defiance, she accepted refreshments from that Lieutenant Wickham, raising her glass to Miss Bingley as she drank it.

...

It was far, far too past the pale when he could finally claim his supper set.

A tense affair. He was too angry to speak without betraying himself, and Elizabeth was not offering any olive branches. He would not want to have this conversation in the halting manner that a dance would force upon them, he reasoned. Nor did he wish her to have any escape.

When the bell rang for supper, he led her to the foot of the table near the hostess, for that is where Miss Bingley had placed his card. Bingley was all the way at the head, and near him Miss Bennet.

Eventually, when the people surrounding them were well into their dinner conversations, he could no longer contain himself. "I would wish you did not spend every waking moment in the company of Mr. Wickham," he said in a low, controlled tone. "Keeping him from other ladies you may be, but by dancing with him so publicly — _twice_ , I may add — you are endorsing him to all and sundry!"

She glanced at him but kept her focus in front of her as she spoke. "I find that the veal is not quite to my taste. Perhaps the pheasant?"

"Miss Elizabeth, this turn of conversation is not amusing!"

" _Why_ , Mr. Darcy?" she intimated, finally turning to face him. " _Why_ are you so _jealous_ that you must _denigrate_ Mr. Wickham?"

Any possible response caught in his throat.

"Haven't you done enough?" she continued furiously, head bobbing as she ticked off her list. "You denied him his living, you separated him from his lady—"

"His lady," he repeated, fear evaporating and anger boiling as he perceived what he was speaking of. " _His_ lady. What do you know?"

"That you were so upset over where she had chosen to place her affections that you tore them apart!"

"Might he have neglected to tell you," said Darcy icily, "that the lady was _fifteen years old?"_

Elizabeth's eyes went so very wide.

He let the chasm grow.

"And you believe," he continued in a deadly tone, "that I separated Wickham from this _lady_ because I was _jealous?_ "

She hesitated but persisted, "Do you deny it, sir?"

"The lady in question, Miss _Elizabeth_ ," — he spoke her name with more vitriol than he ever had — "is my _sister._ "

She could not respond.

" _Yes._ Do you not think that I have a right to consider the match unsuitable? Mr. Wickham is in every way a reprobate! He convinced her, a _girl_ , to _elope_ with him — a decision that would have ruined her life — all because he wanted her fortune!"

She did not hold his eye as she said more lightly, "Ruined her life?" Her laugh was forced. "I think you are exaggerating, sir."

Darcy took several deep breaths and clenched and relaxed his hands before considering himself calm enough to speak. "Miss Elizabeth. I _know_ Wickham. I grew up with him. We were at Cambridge together." He paused there, believing she must know _something_ of what young men wasted their time with at university. "Mr. Wickham is a charmer, so much so that he got out of every spot of trouble he was implicated in and deceived _my father._ He is the worst sort of gambler, liar, and — forgive me, Elizabeth — he is a _seducer_. He should have never been offered the living at the church!"

She was shaking her head, fidgeting with her napkin, and sipping repeatedly at her drink throughout this speech. "No. No. Your father could not be so deceived. 'Tis impossible. You are two to one, therefore in all likelihood wrong."

"Is a view correct simply because it is held by the majority?" he argued.

She paled and could not refute his logic.

More gently, he sighed and continued, "Miss Elizabeth, with all due respect, neither you nor my father have seen Wickham in his unguarded moments as I have."

"But you say he is a seducer. Why then has he never tried anything with me? We have been so much in each other's company the past sennight— " Her hands stilled on her lap. "Oh, that is right. For I am not _handsome enough to tempt anyone!"_

"Miss Elizabeth!" he cried in a loud whisper, but she had already stood abruptly from the dinner table, scraping the chair and rattling utensils as she did so.

All conversation hushed to stare at the cause of the disruption. Even the music startled. Heat crawling up her cheeks, Elizabeth muttered, "Excuse me. I have urgent needs to attend to," and fled.

Darcy watched her go, hands dropping to his knees.

"My, how rude," said the hostess in a voice that carried easily through the silence. "I really thought she had more sense of decorum than that."

But the damage was done.

Whispers sprouted up all around like mushrooms, rising in volume with every non-remonstrance. At the other end of the table, Bingley began to speak loudly about the food and how excellent the Netherfield birds were, wasn't Nicholls' roast to die for? The youngest Miss Bennets were giggling, the middle stared at her plate, the eldest started to go after Elizabeth but froze as her mother began to wail. The father flushed red as his cousin began a sermon on the proper place of women. If a few gracious patronesses and esteemed nephews were thrown into the lecture, it was to be expected.

But Darcy observed none of this.

It was all a buzzing in his ears, an eerie, senseless cacophony. Hardly knowing what he did, he neatly folded up his napkin and stood, primly excusing himself as needing fresh air. He left through a different door — the one to outside — but there was only one thing on his mind, and that was that he needed to see Elizabeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think?!
> 
> And, yes. The anticipated chapter count has gone up significantly. We began with 4 and now it's 14?!? The backbone of the writing is complete though, so it should end there.
> 
> P.S. I have been a strangely prodigious writer lately, and have posted an angsty one-shot on Lydia and Darcy. Read at your own risk!


	7. In which Phillips Spills the Beans

"I knew it!" hissed Mrs. Phillips once the blue-green tailcoat disappeared round the bend. "Mr. Darcy, a rake! Why else should dear Elizabeth, so circumspect, make a diversion and run away from him?"

A radius of gossips around her tittered like a wave.

"What? What did she say?"

"Mr. Darcy, a rake!"

"Mr. Darcy is _not_ a rake!" nearly shouted Miss Bingley, nostrils flared. "He has spent a _month_ under our care and there was not a _peep_ of improper behavior from him!"

Some looked on skeptically, others uncertain. The old great aunt of the shire said, "My dear, you are very handsome, to be sure, but men— well, men simply have _tastes_."

If a wine glass could crack, it would.

"Miss Goulding, _you_ were seated beside them," cut in a Mrs. Wagner, "What did you hear?"

"I- I-" the young miss stuttered. Gloved hands jumped to her cheeks, and she could not choke past a word!

"Oh, Lord! Dear me!" cried Mrs. Phillips. "Was it so very bad?"

"N-no! That is, yes, but—!" She took a shuddering breath. "He- he was _warning_ Miss Elizabeth! Said there was... there was... there was a- a- sedu- du- cer—"

"Seducer!" Mrs. Wagner gasped. The neighbours tittered.

"But he said it was someone else!" she cried. "A... a Mr..."

Many necks craned over the table to hear her increasingly incomprehensible murmurs.

"Speak up, dear," said Mrs. Wagner impatiently. "It is the protection of all our young women at stake!"

"I-" cried the petrified Miss Goulding, "I cannot!"

"I know who it is," said a Mr. Blethley importantly from the middle. On both sides, the row of diners turned to him. "Or rather, I know which man it is that Mr. Darcy _hates._ He — Mr. Darcy — has already ruined this gentleman's prospects, both in living and in love! The man in question," — here he paused dramatically, as if to savour the attention being lavished upon him — "is one Lieutenant Wickham."

 _"Wickham?"_ cried the matrons.

 _"Lieutenant?"_ cried the misses.

"Indeed," said the recently rendered important man. "I have it on good authority — from the man himself, you know — that Mr. Darcy ruined his prospects with a gentlewoman when he denied Mr. Wickham the living in the Church that was willed to him!"

There was a collective gasp.

"Wickham?! A seducer!"

"That serpent be shifting the blame!"

"Could it be? He must be heartbroken!"

"Hold it! We have naught but hearsay!"

"Rich folks, I've said it before—"

"It could be fallacious slander! Check your tongues—"

"Oh hush, goody two shoes, do not pretend you are not enjoying this—"

"But where is Mr. Wickham?" cried Mrs. Bennet from where Miss Bennet was wafting her salts, whom until now had been shocked into fretful incoherence.

At once, they all leaned back and forth and up and side, searching the dinner table. Those who knew Mr. Wickham searched for a shock of blond hair and a roguish smile. Those who did not searched out of principle.

There were a few mistaken exclamations if _that_ was Mr. Wickham or merely some one or other unlucky redcoat. Eventually, it was settled that Lieutenant Wickham, while he had indeed danced the first and third sets with Miss Elizabeth and the second with Miss King, was nowhere to be seen _now_. The officers nattered among themselves—Lieutenant Denny swore Wickham said he was heading back early because of _some_ jealous men—and Colonel Forster frowned. Someone knocked aside a glass of wine. There was shouting, and complaints, and gesticulating for servants.

Bingley mopped his brow frantically at the head.

...

Darcy paced quickly on the floorboards, footsteps clopping, head turning left and right as he searched the long corridors. Windows of glass cut glimpses of the silver moonlight. The soft glow of the occasional candle and his own memory served as his only guide.

It was awfully lonely on this side of the house. He could hear the wind whistling outside. Desolate, eerie. He did not put stock in ghosts tales, but he almost wished he would be discovered by another living soul.

"Lucas!" he cried in relief when he spotted the shape of an outdated coat. "Have you seen Miss Elizabeth?"

John Lucas, standing down the hall, cocked his pockmarked head. "If I have, Darcy, what's it to you?"

Darcy ran a hand agitatedly through the formerly well-kept waves of his hair. "I have to fix this. I said some things — foolish, foolish things! — and now she will not listen!"

"Maybe," said Elizabeth's longtime neighbour and friend, "she does not need more things told her. She needs her _space_ , which you seem so unwilling to give."

Flinching at the curt reprimand, Darcy took a deep breath. Calm, he needed calm— and found that the sentiment inspired by John's words was almost _hopeful_. "I— You truly think so? We have had so many misapprehensions. I cannot believe — all because of that stupid _remark_. Can this only want time to be resolved?"

"Settle down, Darcy. If you honestly seek to speak to Miss Elizabeth properly, you may do so at Longbourn."

"Yes, yes — but where is she now?" he pleaded. If she was still angry with him, or God forbid, _crying..._

The other gave him a long look. "She is being accompanied by Mr. Wickham—"

"Mr. _Wickham?"_ In his stress, Darcy grabbed the shorter but heavier man by the arm and shook him. "You _imbecile_ , what have you done?!"

Affronted, Lucas tore his arm back. "What have _I_ done? What can you have to say against a lowly lieutenant? Whom, might I add, has the basic decency to call on her at her father's house instead of finding her alone!" When Darcy's face fell but he did not let go, Lucas continued exasperatedly, "Look! There was a maid with them, and Miss Elizabeth herself said she wished to speak with the man."

"Do not tell me he fooled you as well! Wickham puts on airs, appearances! We must go after them!"

John's eyes narrowed. "May I be frank, Mr. Darcy? I do not trust you."

He made a sound that was halfway between a growl and a groan. "This again! Whatever you saw in the garden earlier, you did not see the whole of it! Moreover, even if I _was_ that sort of man, Miss Elizabeth is a gentlewoman, not a servant!"

Lucas took one dangerous, echoing step forward, prodding a finger into Darcy's chest. "Oh, so there is a difference, is there? Whether the woman is a gentlewoman, or from trade, or a servant?"

"I — " he began, and stopped. "That is not what I meant."

Lucas snorted.

The words to defend himself made themselves in his mind, accreted at the tip of his tongue, but with every passing endless second that he formulated and recreated a phrasing of, _B_ _y right of her birth,_ _a gentlewoman must be treated with greater difference than a common woman_ , the arguments sounded weaker and constructed out of tinted glass.

"The high and mighty Mr. Darcy," said Lucas acridly, "having his superior views challenged. You know, though my father is a knight, I was for the earlier of my life a plain old tradesman's son." His face grew darker. "I've lived the class treatments. I know your type."

Darcy's usual coldness and hauteur returned. "Perhaps I am not of that ilk. Perhaps my intentions are honourable."

"Honourable," Lucas repeated, stonily. "So you intend to make Elizabeth Bennet your wife?"

Yes. _Yessss._ _No!_ shouted a powerful voice from the distance. _NO_.

As the moments ticked by and Darcy remained silent, countenance warring from longing to doubt to intense need, Lucas' brow lowered darkly. "I see." — he said, and rapped the wall.

Doors to either side of Darcy opened rapidly. He whirled, but could not react quickly enough before beefy, sun-browned, labouring men strong-armed him, forcing his arms behind his back and locking them there. In their rough-handed grip, Darcy struggled, snarled. But for all his efforts, he was just a gentleman.

He gave one last mighty tug, but cried out in pain as the man on his right forced his wrist into an unnatural angle. In anguish, pride thrown and trampled in the dust, "Do not do this," he begged. "Elizabeth — safe — do not trust Wickham — "

"That man has shown himself to be better than you."

"You have not seen him in truth. You are making a mistake! The rakehell is Wickham, not I."

"If I am wrong," said Lucas, tugging his old coat, "I shall bear the consequences. But, _Mr. Darcy_ , I do not believe I am."

"No," he said hoarsely. "No! You are _wrong!"_

But Darcy's cries fell on deaf ears as John Lucas swept out of the hall.


End file.
